Warriors in Bronze (20 page)

'Get moving, Agamemnon,' Menelaus growled impatiently,
'else we won't win any booty, and I'll never win my greaves!'

So
that,
I concluded dimly, was why Heroes fought so
heroically. Remember I was young and extremely inexperi­enced.

A violent interruption whipped decision from my hands. A
chariot whirled from the dust-fog, the Hero brandished a spear
and bawled at the stretch of his lungs: 'Who'll fight Theseus of
Athens, Theseus of Athens!'

I surfaced sharply from a stupor the weird manoeuvres had
induced. 'Take him, Menelaus! The idiot's out of control. Whip
up and turn behind him!'

Theseus thudded past, the naves of his wheels whirred a foot
from our own, an ineffectual spear-jab thumped my shield.
Menelaus swung his team in a tight two-cornered turn, and
flailed his whip. The chase led across the battlefield's front, we
swerved round interlocked chariots, skirted bunches of spear­men and slowly gained on Theseus whose driver wrestled the
reins to curb his bolting horses. We crashed through a group of
Locrians swinging slings of fine-spun wool; a stone bounced off
my helmet. Menelaus closed on the quarry, guided his chariot
abaft the nearside wheel. Theseus frantically twisted about,
tripped on the rocking floor-thongs, cowered behind his shield.
I lifted my spear for the thrust.

'The Lady save us!' Menelaus howled. 'Look to your left!'

I turned my head. A solid wall of chariots raced like a tidal
wave, a roaring, thundering breaker galloping wheel to wheel.
Long hair streamed in the wind of the charge, tawny naked
bodies - absolutely naked - manned the hurtling chariots, a
bugger and his catamite in each, and every one hell-bent on
death or glory. They wore neither helmets nor shields; a
menacing cable of spears glittered like frost in the sun.

The Heraclids' hidden reserve flung in at the critical moment:
the Scavengers of Thebes.

My spear haft slid from a paralysed hand. 'Run!' I shrieked.
'Turn right! Drive like the wind!
'

Menelaus needed no telling. We tore from the field of

Megara like men possessed by furies, overtook panic-struck
Heroes who had also seen the horror, scraped past slower
drivers, jolted over corpses, smashed through scrub and bushes.
Like a gathering storm behind us we heard the Thebans' war-
cries, the roll of drumming hoofbeats and strident bronze-tyred
wheels. Menelaus flogged his horses, I gripped the rail and
struggled to keep my feet, glanced fearfully over my shoulder.

Gradually but certainly our fast Venetic thoroughbreds out­stripped the Theban horde.

We left the plain in a welter of flying vehicles that crammed
the hill-girt funnel gating the Isthmus road. Ruthlessly my
brother thrust sluggish teams aside, tipped in the ditch a
lumbering three-horse chariot - an artful trick, nave lifting
nave - and overhauled satisfied Heroes who had left the battle
early with chariot-loads of plunder. The track, approaching
Sciron's Rocks, made overtaking difficult; I pretended I carried
to Corinth the king's victorious tidings, and demanded right of
way. Grumbling, they shuffled aside. Having gained the lead I
shouted that the Scavengers were loose; if they wanted to save
their skins they had better move like lightning.

Menelaus cracked his whip; we hurriedly drove on.

He passaged Sciron's Rocks at an unbelievable trot. I averted
my eyes from a vertical cliff which plunged below the nearside
wheel to rocks like fangs and a boiling sea. The track thereafter
seemed level and broad as a highway newly paved. In the glow
of a crimson sunset we saw Corinth's grey-walled citadel
perched on its craggy mount, and walked our weary horses up
the serpentine track to the gate.

Conveying bad news is always unpleasant, and often highly
dangerous if the recipient loses his temper. Bunus, Warden of
Corinth, became neither flustered nor angry. He seated us in
the Hall and offered watered wine - I emptied a double-
handled cup without drawing breath
-
and heard our tale in
silence. I confessed we had fled from the fight and therefore
could not describe the finish of the Scavengers' tempestuous
charge. I surmised that the attack, so furious and surprising,
must have swept Mycenae's forces from the field.

Bunus summoned his captains; trumpets on the watch-
towers blared alarm; spearmen manned the walls and Heroes
donned their armour; messengers ran to the town below. A
long procession - men, women, children, cattle, sheep and
horses - ascended to the citadel for refuge. By sundown
Corinth was ready for escaladers.

None appeared. Instead the gates admitted a trickle of sur­vivors : exhausted, staggering warriors, many badly wounded.
Among them my old tutor Diores, his forearm gashed from
elbow to wrist. I embraced him almost in tears - delayed reac­tion was setting in - fed him meat and wine and bound the
wound. Remnants of a defeated Host crowded the palace Hall;
torchlight conjured movement from leaping boars and lions
painted on the walls and sculpted the faces of grave-eyed Heroes
listening to Diores' tale - a story that crowned calamity.

King Eurystheus was dead.

'They caught him at Sciron's Rocks, pulled him from the
chariot and hacked him in pieces,' Diores said tiredly. 'I was
driving a bowshot in front, and saw it happen. Hyllus cut off
his head and stuck the skull on a spear - which so delighted the
bastards they sang a paean of triumph and danced around the
trophy. Checked the pursuit. Only reason I escaped.'

He dragged his hand across a dusty sweat-caked face. 'Some
of our Heroes dismounted and fled on foot through the hills;
but there won't be a lot of survivors
-
you don't get quarter
from the Scavengers. The Athenians' prisoners might ransom
themselves if they're lucky. Otherwise...' The hand that lifted
a cup to his mouth shook like a leaf in the wind.

I strove to collect my shattered wits. The king's death
changed the disaster's whole complexion: from a military de­feat now stemmed a political vacuum whose implications were
serious indeed. The chance Atreus awaited fell unheralded
from heaven - and he was far away and unaware. I recalled
through mists of fatigue his appreciation, years before, of the
course events would take when Eurystheus died: a short sharp
bicker between Marshal and royal sons, the Heroes supporting
Atreus and a peaceable accession.

Were they alive, those sons - my friends Perimedes and his
brothers whom last I had seen fighting around the king? I put
the question sharply to Diores.

He opened drooping eyelids. 'Can't say for certain. Damned
unlikely. Probably killed with Eurystheus.'

Which, if true, opened without hindrance the Marshal's path
to the throne - or the way of any Hero bold enough to seize it,
someone on the spot.

Thyestes.

The name rang in my ears like a death-cry. I must summon
Atreus from Pylos; not a moment could be lost. I forced jaded
limbs from the stool and addressed the Warden. 'Lord Bunus, I
want fresh horses. I go at once to Mycenae.'

Bunus eyed me searchingly. 'The Heraclids might be any­where. You will travel the road tonight?'

'Tonight.' Menelaus sagged in a chair; I shook him awake.

'Come, brother - let us try your driving in the dark.'

* * *

Moonlight silvered the track, carved sharp-edged ebony cloaks
from clefts and crags. Menelaus drove in a daze, ready to drop
from fatigue - nothing is so dispiriting as defeat. Periodically I
relieved him at the reins, and sombrely reflected on the re­verses a day had brought. My baggage and spearmen lost - but
easily replaceable - the throne at risk, a battle incompetently
fought, Heroes contending like brigands hunting loot, My­cenae's Host destroyed.

Our methods of making war warranted speedy reform. A
vision of the Theban charge flashed on moonlit scarps: an
irresistible onslaught combining velocity, vigour and order.

That was the way to win battles.

The horses, mettlesome and frisky, tugged my aching arms.
The armour weighed like mountains on my shoulders. 'Mene­laus,' I said, 'there was something horribly wrong with our
tactics today!'

Menelaus, asleep on his feet, snored gently in reply.

we
reached Mycenae at cockcrow. Figures flitted like wraiths
in the half-dark heralding dawn: peasants carrying mattocks,
women bearing pitchers for filling at the Perseia spring,
ploughmen driving ox teams to the fields. The long night's
journey had subdued our horses, which hung on the bits and
plodded up the hill to the citadel. A sleepy guard was un­barring the gate, the chariot rattled through. I tumbled tiredly
out.

During the journey from Nemea onwards I kept wondering
whom I could trust to carry the news to Pylos. Neither Mene­laus nor I had slept from one sunrise to the next; battle-strain
and incessant driving had taken toll; we were in no condition
for a whirlwind non-stop trip across Achaea. Moreover I had to
stay in Mycenae and try to control events till the Marshal
arrived. I could not entrust the message to anyone guarding the
citadel; he might inform Thyestes - the very last thing I
wanted.

A young squire crept furtively past, clearly hoping to escape
our notice. (He was returning, he told me afterwards, from
bedding the wife of a merchant away in Argos, who lived in a
house overlooking the Chaos Ravine.) I knew him well; for
moons he had dogged my footsteps, silently adoring, and asked
me once to take him into my household. I refused because his
pedigree was not entirely noble - an unfortunate mesalliance
between his grandfather and a slave girl - and only men of
the purest blood should serve the Marshal's heir. But he was
likeable and dependable - and this was no time for priggish-
ness.